


Respite

by notavodkashot



Series: FFXV one shots [17]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Blood Kink, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Knifeplay, Light Bondage, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sensation Play, Sensory Deprivation, Stream of Consciousness, Subspace, sub pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-03-23
Packaged: 2019-11-28 17:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18211613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notavodkashot/pseuds/notavodkashot
Summary: It's worth it, Cor thinks, to let Nyx take him to pieces in the best of ways.





	Respite

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the lovely folk over at Discord! Shameless smut, because Nyx putting Cor in subspace is my favorite thing.

It's rare they have time to indulge like this, to make a whole production out of it. It'll be worth it, though. It always is. Cor sits in place, docile, and lets Nyx place the gag and the blindfold in place. There's something comfortable about how he goes about it, that sits heavy and poignant in his gut, at the notion that they've... grown used to this. That this is a routine, however rarely indulged in. The negotiations and the talks and all the hours of awkward half words are worth the way in which Nyx combs his fingers through his hair, nails scrapping at his scalp, before he slides the headphones on. Cor swallows hard, feeling his skin break into goosebumps on reflex.

The world is nothing but touch, at this point, Nyx's hands gently guiding his arms back, posing them in place, to get them at the right angle. Then the rasp of rope - it's the rope they use only for this, the one Nyx wrapped pieces of silk along the length, texture agonizingly complex as it slides along Cor's arms, winding in place until he's firmly held. It'll get worse, which is to say better, as they go on, the contrast between the rough, scratchy rope, and the soft, almost sharp smoothness of the silk. He's prone to remembering it at the worst time.

Then Nyx slides the bell into his hand, and Cor swallows hard against the gag, already feeling spit welling under his tongue.

Right.

Right, that's fine. It's fine.

Cor sits still, bent at a very specific angle, in a way that makes his arms feel heavy and his shoulders start to go numb already, because it's not a posture he can ignore. But that's the point. He has to keep track of his balance, of his place. It keeps him mindful of his body, when he can't mind anything but his body already. And then the torture starts, having to count the minutes of just sitting there, trying to gauge it by the beating of his heart, echoing loud against the silence inside his head.

Except his heart is racing, speeding up between each breath.

It feels like forever, caught up in the expectation of whatever it is Nyx will give him. Cor tries to brace for it, but the floating feeling sneaks up on him, just like always. All that tension pressed tight under his skin, like steam in a valve, and then it bursts, and he falls inside his own bones, aware of everything and of nothing and too distracted by it to really brace anymore.

Nyx knows - Nyx always knows - because he never starts until he's there. Until he's ready.

He flails - tries to, the rope is there for a reason, that reason being he broke Nyx's nose the first time they tried this, and he's still sorry about it - when a finger runs along the muscles of his side, tracing the corded rope wrapped around his ribs. It feels like an explosion, for all he knows the touch is feather-like. But it's too much, and too little, and he feels the vibration of Nyx's voice against a shoulder, though he can't hear the words. Just the edge of air curling on his skin.

A nail scratching along the trail of hair down his navel. Lips brushing a collarbone. A hand running along the curve of his spine, pronounced deeply by the way he's propped up in place.

Each and every touch feels like taking an Anak charge head on, skin bruising, ripping, bursting, and then settling again, like water in a pond. He's whimpering against the gag, eyes closed tightly behind the blindfold. Then he remembers the rope, flinching under a tongue licking along the side of his face.

Down and down he goes, tumbling like dead weight down the steps, bits and pieces breaking, chipping off, each touch brief and overwhelming all on its own.

Teeth. It takes him eternity and a half, to recognize teeth, closing on a nipple, grinding it between two sharp edges, not biting so much as taunting him with it. He writhes. He can't not writhe. He writhes and whimpers and bites back, his own fangs digging into the well-worn indents on the ball gag. He almost doesn't notice the touch to his cock, amidst that. Almost. It's too late by then, when he does. There's pressure at the base, enough pressure to make him nauseous, tears clogging up, sobs welling under his sternum.

The cock ring, he knows, means Nyx is going to ride him.

Just the thought of it is enough for a spasm of panic, trembles stretching down his shoulders, making him feel like he'll shake so hard, he'll fall apart, one piece at the time, until he's just a pile of loose pieces, like the jigsaws Nyx likes to solve.

It's terrible and terrifying, but he holds onto the bell, anyway, and cries harder when the teeth are replaced by lips.

He loses track. Of himself. Of his limbs. His skin unfurls inside his mind, contours erased as it stretches wide, like a map Nyx is carefully drawing one touch at the time. His heartbeat loses its tempo, a hummingbird cowering under his ribs.

Then he falls back into himself, collapsing into his own bones, feeling muscles bunching up in tense, twisted knots, when Nyx starts sliding over the length of his cock, which pulses on its own, echo of the frantic rush of blood making his ears tingle. When he bottoms out, weight adding pressure to his hips - so much pressure, he can only take so much - Cor arches back, imagining a climax almost as real as the tingling in his toes.

The first touch of the blade is almost imperceptible.

It leaves after images of itself, splashes of that unique color that flashes behind Cor's eyelids, when every nerve in his body is lit up by pain. Little sharp trails, something viscous and languid trailing after. Each drop of blood weights heavily on his bones, making them creak, and the skin around it tenses and pulls, when it begins to dry. He wonders if he'll be able to take it.

(He will. He wants to. He always does.)

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch. Like a half-dried pen on paper, it drags on, leaving imprints and jagged lines. It skirts the edge of a nipple, and Cor imagines another climax, basking for hours on the year-long shudder rolling like molasses down his back.

Half a century later, Nyx stops. Three whole seconds, because he loves to watch, to bask on Cor bloodied for his sake. Then he starts moving his hips, less a roll, more a sway, like a boat caught in a storm, back and forth, abrupt and unpredictable, right until Cor's heart catches the rhythm, times the spaces between beats to the downward stroke. Upward. Sideways. Stroke. Stroke. And just as he's breathing again, hands fall on him, lighting up the design in molten pain, neon lights behind his eyes.

He can't tell - he can guess, he could ask but he won't, because guessing is part of the game, makes it fun, drives him incoherent with the doubt - if Nyx is using magic, or not. If his hands are cold enough frozen chunks fall off and melt on his thighs, nails digging until blood flows. Again, and again. If there's purple lightning arching between his fingers, when he grabs a nipple and twists, like a dial, round and round, until Cor's toes are curled, that little cord connecting every limb to the hook in Nyx's fingers, it is taunt and tense and Cor imagines playing it like a guitar string.

Magic or not, Nyx's hands feel like white-hot irons, wrapped snugly around his throat, slowly constricting, while Nyx fucks himself on his cock, short, sharp thrusts, just enough for his weight to dig in with each fall, fractures spreading like spiderwebs all throughout Cor's bones.

He can never tell - won't ever tell - if he passes out from lack of air, or from the strength of orgasm - nothing imaginary about it, nothing play-pretend to it - that tears out his soul from his bones.

He’s aware, at some point, of Nyx folding him nearly in half, fucking him hard and desperate into the bed. But he’s aware of it like he’s aware of Regis’ schedule every day: somewhere far at the edge of his awareness, like something he should consider important but honestly he’s not too concerned with at the moment. He could concentrate, of course. He could shuffle back inside his bones and take stock of his bones and the layers between them and skin, and then he’d know exactly how it feels, Nyx’s arms hooked on his knees, tilting him the right way so he can enjoy the way he assures him his muscles clench with each thrust.

But that would mean giving up the white noise crawling on his skin, tingling like a ghost of synesthesia, because sound and taste and color are now echoing from the nerves on his skin, miles away from where he’s slowly diffusing into air. And it’s so nice, to just exist there, away from everything and anything, dimly aware of his body but safe in the certainty Nyx would see to it. Cor basks in the euphoria of it, the lazy, rumbling ease of just existing. He’s fairly sure Nyx could get him so far deep he’d forget his own name, ground every last speck of him and dilute it into nothing, if he wanted. But it’s fine, that he doesn’t. It’s fine.

Fine.

It takes him ages to settle back inside his bones, like sediment in a riverbed, slowly crumbling into dust that piles up back into himself. It’s not… unpleasant, exactly. It’s his body. It’s been his body more than fifty years. He’s used to it. He’s used to the one tendon in his thigh that never really healed properly and knots up when it gets real cold, in early January. He’s used to every creak and twist, every wound that never got anything other than maybe a potion and gritted teeth to carry through. Scars running deep and memories running deeper. It’s been well-used, his body. Well-worn. He knows it and he trusts it, and he doesn’t really hate it, but there’s something to the change, the sudden awareness of it that could make him weep, if nothing else for the sudden clarity of it. It has made him weep, before. He doesn’t know if he’ll get _there_ , today, but once he’s there – really there, all of him and all of his body and all of his memories – and the awareness of the rope holding him in place is distressing, rather than reassuring, he drops the bell.

The arms on his shoulders – he realizes there’s an arm on his shoulders, tucking his body against Nyx’s side while he wandered away inside his own mind – tightens for a moment, and then hands. He thinks it’s only two. Should only be two. Hands on his skin. His skin breaks in goosebumps again, with the echo of déjà vu.

“Cor,” Nyx says, fingers rubbing the skin behind his ears, willing away the imprint of the headphones. “It’s okay.”

He knows it is. He wouldn’t do this, if it weren’t. But it’s nice to hear, anyway, if only because Nyx’s voice is suddenly new and echoing, after so long without sound. His ears ring, a little, but it’s fine, because Nyx gives him time to get used to it, to remember what sound feels like, when he’s not trying to rebuild it out of touch, words of praise pressed against the corner of Cor’s jaw. Nyx talks, tone even, low, soft, and his fingers busy themselves with the rope. It peels away slowly and he can feel the blood rushing through, skin tingling with a million pinpricks as his nerves try to regain control. His arms feel heavy and his shoulders far too loose to exert any force. But it’s fine, because he’s not expected to.

“You did so good, baby,” Nyx whispers, sound echoing through Cor’s jaw, while he runs his nails along his arms, chasing the sparks along his nerves. “So, so good. Ready to drink something for me?”

The suggestion makes him feel parched like he’s been abandoned to his luck in Leide for two months. It comes out his throat with a whine, and suddenly the ball gag isn’t as comfortable anymore, because he’s keenly aware of it. His jaw aches with the weight of it, pressing down his lower teeth, his lips dry and peeling even if there’s a string of spit trailing the corners of his mouth. The whine turns into a groan, as Nyx takes it off and rubs the corner of his jaw, right where it hurts the most.

Cor lets him press the glass against his lips, fingers in the back of his head subtly tugging him in the right direction. Doesn’t bother with anything more complicated than swallowing steadily, slowly. He’d make a mess, if he didn’t. His arms are heavy, hanging off his shoulders, and moving is all together too much to ask for, right now. It takes forever, to finish the glass. To feel strong enough to reach up and tug the blindfold off. Nyx never takes the blindfold off, himself, because sight is much too much when he’s not ready for it. Braced.

The room is dark, comfortably so, but he can still make out the shape of Nyx’s face, close enough to hold but not crowd. Cor tilts his head, arching forward, and presses his lips to the underside of Nyx’s jaw, eyes half-lidded.

“I’m a mess,” he declares, not bothering to look, because the pinpricks have gone down enough he can feel any number of things, slowly crusting on his skin.

Nyx tried to clean up the mess, while he basked on the high of it, the first time they tried this, but the extra touch fucked him up the wrong way. So now they’re resigned to the mess, and Cor still thinks it’s worth it, every damn bit of it, because there’s a hole on his neck, hollowed out by the knot of tension surgically removed from it.

“You’re amazing,” Nyx rebukes, gently, softly, and kisses Cor lightly, like anything more might cause him to cave in on himself. Which it probably would. They’ve got this down to a science, by now. “C’mon, let’s clean you up.”

“Mmm,” Cor says, with the air one resigned to be boneless for the remainder of the night, and relishes in the sound of Nyx laughing in delight when he folds him into his arms.

Worth it, yes.

All of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out on [DW](https://notavodkashot.dreamwidth.org/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/notavodkashot), if you'd like.


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